Skippers of Padron—Caldas de los Reyes—Pontevedra—The Notary
Public—Insane Barber—An Introduction—Gallegan Language—Afternoon
Ride—Vigo—The Stranger—Jews of the Desert—Bay of Vigo—Sudden
Interruption—The Governor.
After a stay of about a fortnight at Saint James, we again mounted our
horses and proceeded in the direction of Vigo. As we did not leave Saint
James till late in the afternoon, we travelled that day no farther than
Padron, a distance of only three leagues. This place is a small port,
situate at the extremity of a firth which communicates with the sea. It
is called for brevity’s sake, Padron, but its proper appellation is Villa
del Padron, or the town of the patron saint; it having been, according to
the legend, the principal residence of Saint James during his stay in
Galicia. By the Romans it was termed Iria Flavia. It is a flourishing
little town, and carries on rather an extensive commerce, some of its
tiny barks occasionally finding their way across the Bay of Biscay, and
even so far as the Thames and London.
There is a curious anecdote connected with the skippers of Padron, which
can scarcely be considered as out of place here, as it relates to the
circulation of the Scriptures. I was one day in the shop of my friend
the bookseller at Saint James, when a stout good-humoured-looking priest
entered. He took up one of my Testaments, and forthwith burst into a
violent fit of laughter. “What is the matter?” demanded the bookseller.
“The sight of this book reminds me of a circumstance”: replied the other,
“about twenty years ago, when the English first took it into their heads
to be very zealous in converting us Spaniards to their own way of
thinking, they distributed a great number of books of this kind amongst
the Spaniards who chanced to be in London; some of them fell into the
hands of certain skippers of Padron, and these good folks, on their
return to Galicia, were observed to have become on a sudden exceedingly
opinionated and fond of dispute. It was scarcely possible to make an
assertion in their hearing without receiving a flat contradiction,
especially when religious subjects were brought on the carpet. ‘It is
false,’ they would say; ‘Saint Paul, in such a chapter and in such a
verse, says exactly the contrary.’ ‘What can you know concerning what
Saint Paul or any other saint has written?’ the priests would ask them.
‘Much more than you think,’ they replied; ‘we are no longer to be kept in
darkness and ignorance respecting these matters:’ and then they would
produce their books and read paragraphs, making such comments that every
person was scandalized; they cared nothing about the Pope, and even spoke
with irreverence of the bones of Saint James. However, the matter was
soon bruited about, and a commission was dispatched from our see to
collect the books and burn them. This was effected, and the skippers
were either punished or reprimanded, since which I have heard nothing
more of them. I could not forbear laughing when I saw these books; they
instantly brought to my mind the skippers of Padron and their religious
disputations.”
Our next day’s journey brought us to Pontevedra. As there was no talk of
robbers in these parts, we travelled without any escort and alone. The
road was beautiful and picturesque, though somewhat solitary, especially
after we had left behind us the small town of Caldas. There is more than
one place of this name in Spain; the one of which I am speaking is
distinguished from the rest by being called Caldas de los Reyes, or the
warm baths of the kings. It will not be amiss to observe that the
Spanish _Caldas_ is synonymous with the Moorish _Alhama_, a word of
frequent occurrence both in Spanish and African topography. Caldas
seemed by no means undeserving of its name: it stands on a confluence of
springs, and the place when we arrived was crowded with people who had
come to enjoy the benefit of the waters. In the course of my travels I
have observed that wherever warm springs are found, vestiges of volcanoes
are sure to be nigh; the smooth black precipice, the divided mountain, or
huge rocks standing by themselves on the plain or on the hill side, as if
Titans had been playing at bowls. This last feature occurs near Caldas
de los Reyes, the side of the mountain which overhangs it in the
direction of the south being covered with immense granite stones,
apparently at some ancient period eructed from the bowels of the earth.
From Caldas to Pontevedra the route was hilly and fatiguing, the heat was
intense, and those clouds of flies, which constitute one of the pests of
Galicia, annoyed our horses to such a degree that we were obliged to cut
down branches from the trees to protect their heads and necks from the
tormenting stings of these bloodthirsty insects. Whilst travelling in
Galicia at this period of the year on horseback, it is always advisable
to carry a fine net for the protection of the animal, a sure and
commodious means of defence, which appears, however, to be utterly
unknown in Galicia, where, perhaps, it is more wanted than in any other
part of the world.
Pontevedra, upon the whole, is certainly entitled to the appellation of a
magnificent town, some of its public edifices, especially the convents,
being such as are nowhere to be found but in Spain and Italy. It is
surrounded by a wall of hewn stone, and stands at the end of a creek into
which the river Levroz disembogues. It is said to have been founded by a
colony of Greeks, whose captain was no less a personage than Teucer the
Telemonian. It was in former times a place of considerable commerce; and
near its port are to be seen the ruins of a farol, or lighthouse, said to
be of great antiquity. The port, however, is at a considerable distance
from the town, and is shallow and incommodious. The whole country in the
neighbourhood of Pontevedra is inconceivably delicious, abounding with
fruits of every description, especially grapes, which in the proper
season are seen hanging from the “parras” in luscious luxuriance. An old
Andalusian author has said that it produces as many oranges and citron
trees as the neighbourhood of Cordova. Its oranges are, however, by no
means good, and cannot compete with those of Andalusia. The
Pontevedrians boast that their land produces two crops every year, and
that whilst they are gathering in one they may be seen ploughing and
sowing another. They may well be proud of their country, which is
certainly a highly favoured spot.
The town itself is in a state of great decay, and notwithstanding the
magnificence of its public edifices, we found more than the usual amount
of Galician filth and misery. The posada was one of the most wretched
description, and to mend the matter, the hostess was a most intolerable
scold and shrew. Antonio having found fault with the quality of some
provision which she produced, she cursed him most immoderately in the
country language, which was the only one she spoke, and threatened, if he
attempted to breed any disturbance in her house, to turn the horses,
himself, and his master forthwith out of doors. Socrates himself,
however, could not have conducted himself on this occasion with greater
forbearance than Antonio, who shrugged his shoulders, muttered something
in Greek, and then was silent.
“Where does the notary public live?” I demanded. Now the notary public
vended books, and to this personage I was recommended by my friend at
Saint James. A boy conducted me to the house of Señor Garcia, for such
was his name. I found him a brisk, active, talkative little man of
forty. He undertook with great alacrity the sale of my Testaments, and
in a twinkling sold two to a client who was waiting in the office, and
appeared to be from the country. He was an enthusiastic patriot, but of
course in a local sense, for he cared for no other country than
Pontevedra.
“Those fellows of Vigo,” said he, “say their town is a better one than
ours, and that it is more deserving to be the capital of this part of
Galicia. Did you ever hear such folly? I tell you what, friend, I
should not care if Vigo were burnt, and all the fools and rascals within
it. Would you ever think of comparing Vigo with Pontevedra?”
“I don’t know,” I replied; “I have never been at Vigo, but I have heard
say that the bay of Vigo is the finest in the world.”
“Bay! my good sir. Bay! yes, the rascals have a bay, and it is that bay
of theirs which has robbed us all our commerce. But what needs the
capital of a district with a bay? It is public edifices that it wants,
where the provincial deputies can meet to transact their business; now,
so far from there being a commodious public edifice, there is not a
decent house in all Vigo. Bay! yes, they have a bay, but have they water
fit to drink? Have they a fountain? Yes, they have, and the water is so
brackish that it would burst the stomach of a horse. I hope, my dear
sir, that you have not come all this distance to take the part of such a
gang of pirates as those of Vigo.”
“I am not come to take their part,” I replied; “indeed, I was not aware
that they wanted my assistance in this dispute. I am merely carrying to
them the New Testament, of which they evidently stand in much need, if
they are such knaves and scoundrels as you represent them.”
“Represent them, my dear sir. Does not the matter speak for itself? Do
they not say that their town is better than ours, more fit to be the
capital of a district, _que disparate_! _que briboneria_! (what folly!
what rascality!)”
“Is there a bookseller’s shop at Vigo?” I inquired.
“There was one,” he replied, “kept by an insane barber. I am glad, for
your sake, that it is broken up, and the fellow vanished; he would have
played you one of two tricks; he would either have cut your throat with
his razor, under pretence of shaving you, or have taken your books and
never have accounted to you for the proceeds. Bay! I never could see
what right such an owl’s nest as Vigo has to a bay.”
No person could exhibit greater kindness to another, than did the notary
public to myself, as soon as I had convinced him that I had no intention
of siding with the men of Vigo against Pontevedra. It was now six
o’clock in the evening, and he forthwith conducted me to a confectioner’s
shop, where he treated me with an iced cream and a small cup of
chocolate. From hence we walked about the city, the notary showing the
various edifices, especially, the Convent of the Jesuits: “See that
front,” said he, “what do you think of it?”
I expressed to him the admiration which I really felt, and by so doing
entirely won the good notary’s heart: “I suppose there is nothing like
that at Vigo?” said I. He looked at me for a moment, winked, gave a
short triumphant chuckle, and then proceeded on his way, walking at a
tremendous rate. The Señor Garcia was dressed in all respects as an
English notary might be: he wore a white hat, brown frock coat, drab
breeches buttoned at the knees, white stockings, and well blacked shoes.
But I never saw an English notary walk so fast: it could scarcely be
called walking: it seemed more like a succession of galvanic leaps and
bounds. I found it impossible to keep up with him: “Where are you
conducting me?” I at last demanded, quite breathless.
“To the house of the cleverest man in Spain,” he replied, “to whom I
intend to introduce you; for you must not think that Pontevedra has
nothing to boast of but its splendid edifices and its beautiful country;
it produces more illustrious minds than any other town in Spain. Did you
ever hear of the grand Tamerlane?”
“Oh, yes,” said I, “but he did not come from Pontevedra or its
neighbourhood: he came from the steppes of Tartary, near the river Oxus.”
“I know he did,” replied the notary, “but what I mean to say is, that
when Enrique the Third wanted an ambassador to send to that African, the
only man he could find suited to the enterprise was a knight of
Pontevedra, Don --- by name. Let the men of Vigo contradict that fact if
they can.”
We entered a large portal and ascended a splendid staircase, at the top
of which the notary knocked at a small door: “Who is the gentleman to
whom you are about to introduce me?” demanded I.
“It is the advocate ---,” replied Garcia; “he is the cleverest man in
Spain, and understands all languages and sciences.”
We were admitted by a respectable-looking female, to all appearance a
housekeeper, who, on being questioned, informed us that the Advocate was
at home, and forthwith conducted us to an immense room, or rather
library, the walls being covered with books, except in two or three
places, where hung some fine pictures of the ancient Spanish school.
There was a rich mellow light in the apartment, streaming through a
window of stained glass, which looked to the west. Behind the table sat
the Advocate, on whom I looked with no little interest: his forehead was
high and wrinkled, and there was much gravity on his features, which were
quite Spanish. He was dressed in a long robe, and might be about sixty;
he sat reading behind a large table, and on our entrance half raised
himself and bowed slightly.
The notary public saluted him most profoundly, and, in an under voice,
hoped that he might be permitted to introduce a friend of his, an English
gentleman, who was travelling through Galicia.
“I am very glad to see him,” said the Advocate, “but I hope he speaks
Castilian, else we can have but little communication; for, although I can
read both French and Latin, I cannot speak them.”
“He speaks, sir, almost as good Spanish,” said the notary, “as a native
of Pontevedra.”
“The natives of Pontevedra,” I replied, “appear to be better versed in
Gallegan than in Castilian, for the greater part of the conversation
which I hear in the streets is carried on in the former dialect.”
“The last gentleman which my friend Garcia introduced to me,” said the
Advocate, “was a Portuguese, who spoke little or no Spanish. It is said
that the Gallegan and Portuguese are very similar, but when we attempted
to converse in the two languages, we found it impossible. I understood
little of what he said, whilst my Gallegan was quite unintelligible to
him. Can you understand our country dialect?” he continued.
“Very little of it,” I replied; “which I believe chiefly proceeds from
the peculiar accent and uncouth enunciation of the Gallegans, for their
language is certainly almost entirely composed of Spanish and Portuguese
words.”
“So you are an Englishman,” said the Advocate. “Your countrymen have
committed much damage in times past in these regions, if we may trust our
histories.”
“Yes,” said I, “they sank your galleons and burnt your finest men-of-war
in Vigo Bay, and, under old Cobham, levied a contribution of forty
thousand pounds sterling on this very town of Pontevedra.”
“Any foreign power,” interrupted the notary public, “has a clear right to
attack Vigo, but I cannot conceive what plea your countrymen could urge
for distressing Pontevedra, which is a respectable town, and could never
have offended them.”
“Señor Cavalier,” said the Advocate, “I will show you my library. Here
is a curious work, a collection of poems, written mostly in Gallegan, by
the curate of Fruime. He is our national poet, and we are very proud of
him.”
We stopped upwards of an hour with the Advocate, whose conversation, if
it did not convince me that he was the cleverest man in Spain, was, upon
the whole, highly interesting, and who certainly possessed an extensive
store of general information, though he was by no means the profound
philologist which the notary had represented him to be.
When I was about to depart from Pontevedra in the afternoon of the next
day, the Señor Garcia stood by the side of my horse, and having embraced
me, thrust a small pamphlet into my hand: “This book,” said he, “contains
a description of Pontevedra. Wherever you go, speak well of Pontevedra.”
I nodded. “Stay,” said he, “my dear friend, I have heard of your
society, and will do my best to further its views. I am quite
disinterested, but if at any future time you should have an opportunity
of speaking in print of Señor Garcia, the notary public of
Pontevedra,—you understand me,—I wish you would do so.”
“I will,” said I.
It was a pleasant afternoon’s ride from Pontevedra to Vigo, the distance
being only four leagues. As we approached the latter town, the country
became exceedingly mountainous, though scarcely anything could exceed the
beauty of the surrounding scenery. The sides of the hills were for the
most part clothed with luxuriant forests, even to the very summits,
though occasionally a flinty and naked peak would present itself, rising
to the clouds. As the evening came on, the route along which we advanced
became very gloomy, the hills and forests enwrapping it in deep shade.
It appeared, however, to be well frequented: numerous cars were creaking
along it, and both horsemen and pedestrians were continually passing us.
The villages were frequent. Vines, supported on parras, were growing, if
possible, in still greater abundance than in the neighbourhood of
Pontevedra. Life and activity seemed to pervade everything. The hum of
insects, the cheerful bark of dogs, the rude songs of Galicia, were
blended together in pleasant symphony. So delicious was my ride, that I
almost regretted when we entered the gate of Vigo.
The town occupies the lower part of a lofty hill, which, as it ascends,
becomes extremely steep and precipitous, and the top of which is crowned
with a strong fort or castle. It is a small compact place, surrounded
with low walls, the streets are narrow, steep, and winding, and in the
middle of the town is a small square.
There is rather an extensive faubourg extending along the shore of the
bay. We found an excellent posada, kept by a man and woman from the
Basque provinces, who were both civil and intelligent. The town seemed
to be crowded, and resounded with noise and merriment. The people were
making a wretched attempt at an illumination, in consequence of some
victory lately gained, or pretended to have been gained, over the forces
of the Pretender. Military uniforms were glancing about in every
direction. To increase the bustle, a troop of Portuguese players had
lately arrived from Oporto, and their first representation was to take
place this evening. “Is the play to be performed in Spanish?” I
demanded. “No,” was the reply; “and on that account every person is so
eager to go; which would not be the case if it were in a language which
they could understand.”
On the morning of the next day I was seated at breakfast in a large
apartment which looked out upon the Plaza Mayor, or great square of the
good town of Vigo. The sun was shining very brilliantly, and all around
looked lively and gay. Presently a stranger entered, and bowing
profoundly, stationed himself at the window, where he remained a
considerable time in silence. He was a man of very remarkable
appearance, of about thirty-five. His features were of perfect symmetry,
and I may almost say, of perfect beauty. His hair was the darkest I had
ever seen, glossy and shining; his eyes large, black, and melancholy; but
that which most struck me was his complexion. It might be called olive,
it is true, but it was a livid olive. He was dressed in the very first
style of French fashion. Around his neck was a massive gold chain, while
upon his fingers were large rings, in one of which was set a magnificent
ruby. Who can that man be? thought I;—Spaniard or Portuguese, perhaps a
Creole. I asked him an indifferent question in Spanish, to which he
forthwith replied in that language, but his accent convinced me that he
was neither Spaniard nor Portuguese.
“I presume I am speaking to an Englishman, sir?” said he, in as good
English as it was possible for one not an Englishman to speak.
_Myself_.—You know me to be an Englishman; but I should find some
difficulty in guessing to what country you belong.
_Stranger_.—May I take a seat?
_Myself_.—A singular question. Have you not as much right to sit in the
public apartment of an inn as myself?
_Stranger_.—I am not certain of that. The people here are not in general
very gratified at seeing me seated by their side.
_Myself_.—Perhaps owing to your political opinions, or to some crime
which it may have been your misfortune to commit?
_Stranger_.—I have no political opinions, and I am not aware that I ever
committed any particular crime,—I am hated for my country and my
religion.
_Myself_.—Perhaps I am speaking to a Protestant, like myself?
_Stranger_.—I am no Protestant. If I were, they would be cautious here
of showing their dislike, for I should then have a government and a
consul to protect me. I am a Jew—a Barbary Jew, a subject of
Abderrahman.
_Myself_.—If that be the case, you can scarcely complain of being looked
upon with dislike in this country, since in Barbary the Jews are slaves.
_Stranger_.—In most parts, I grant you, but not where I was born, which
was far up the country, near the deserts. There the Jews are free, and
are feared, and are as valiant men as the Moslems themselves; as able to
tame the steed, or to fire the gun. The Jews of our tribe are not
slaves, and I like not to be treated as a slave either by Christian or
Moor.
_Myself_.—Your history must be a curious one, I would fain hear it.
_Stranger_.—My history I shall tell to no one. I have travelled much, I
have been in commerce and have thriven. I am at present established in
Portugal, but I love not the people of Catholic countries, and least of
all these of Spain. I have lately experienced the most shameful
injustice in the Aduana of this town, and when I complained, they laughed
at me and called me Jew. Wherever he turns, the Jew is reviled, save in
your country, and on that account my blood always warms when I see an
Englishman. You are a stranger here. Can I do aught for you? You may
command me.
_Myself_.—I thank you heartily, but I am in need of no assistance.
_Stranger_.—Have you any bills, I will accept them if you have?
_Myself_.—I have no need of assistance; but you may do me a favour by
accepting of a book.
_Stranger_.—I will receive it with thanks. I know what it is. What a
singular people? The same dress, the same look, the same book. Pelham
gave me one in Egypt. Farewell! Your Jesus was a good man, perhaps a
prophet; but . . . farewell!
Well may the people of Pontevedra envy the natives of Vigo their bay,
with which, in many respects, none other in the world can compare. On
every side it is defended by steep and sublime hills, save on the part of
the west, where is the outlet to the Atlantic; but in the midst of this
outlet, up towers a huge rocky wall, or island, which breaks the swell,
and prevents the billows of the western sea from pouring through in full
violence. On either side of this island is a passage, so broad, that
navies might pass through at all times in safety. The bay itself is
oblong, running far into the land, and so capacious, that a thousand sail
of the line might ride in it uncrowded. The waters are dark, still, and
deep, without quicksands or shallows, so that the proudest man-of-war
might lie within a stone’s throw of the town ramparts without any fear of
injuring her keel.
Of many a strange event, and of many a mighty preparation has this bay
been the scene. It was here that the bulky dragons of the grand armada
were mustered, and it was from hence that, fraught with the pomp, power,
and terror of old Spain, the monster fleet, spreading its enormous sails
to the wind, and bent on the ruin of the Lutheran isle, proudly
steered;—that fleet, to build and man which half the forests of Galicia
had been felled, and all the mariners impressed from the thousand bays
and creeks of the stern Cantabrian shore. It was here that the united
flags of Holland and England triumphed over the pride of Spain and
France; when the burning timbers of exploded war-ships soared above the
tops of the Gallegan hills, and blazing galleons sank with their treasure
chests whilst drifting in the direction of Sampayo. It was on the shores
of this bay that the English guards first emptied Spanish bodegas, whilst
the bombs of Cobham were crushing the roofs of the castle of Castro, and
the vecinos of Pontevedra buried their doubloons in cellars, and flying
posts were conveying to Lugo and Orensee the news of the heretic invasion
and the disaster of Vigo. All these events occurred to my mind as I
stood far up the hill, at a short distance from the fort, surveying the
bay.
“What are you doing there, Cavalier?” roared several voices. “Stay,
Carracho! if you attempt to run we will shoot you!” I looked round and
saw three or four fellows in dirty uniforms, to all appearance soldiers,
just above me, on a winding path, which led up the hill. Their muskets
were pointed at me. “What am I doing? Nothing, as you see,” said I,
“save looking at the bay; and as for running, this is by no means ground
for a course.” “You are our prisoner,” said they, “and you must come
with us to the fort.” “I was just thinking of going there,” I replied,
“before you thus kindly invited me. The fort is the very spot I was
desirous of seeing.” I thereupon climbed up to the place where they
stood, when they instantly surrounded me, and with this escort I was
marched into the fort, which might have been a strong place in its time,
but was now rather ruinous. “You are suspected of being a spy,” said the
corporal, who walked in front. “Indeed,” said I. “Yes,” replied the
corporal, “and several spies have lately been taken and shot.”
Upon one of the parapets of the fort stood a young man, dressed as a
subaltern officer, and to this personage I was introduced. “We have been
watching you this half hour,” said he, “as you were taking observations.”
“Then you gave yourselves much useless trouble,” said I. “I am an
Englishman, and was merely looking at the bay. Have the kindness now to
show me the fort.” . . .
After some conversation, he said, “I wish to be civil to people of your
nation, you may therefore consider yourself at liberty.” I bowed, made
my exit, and proceeded down the hill. Just before I entered the town,
however, the corporal, who had followed me unperceived, tapped me on the
shoulder. “You must go with me to the governor,” said he. “With all my
heart,” I replied. The governor was shaving, when we were shown up to
him. He was in his shirt sleeves, and held a razor in his hand. He
looked very ill-natured, which was perhaps owing to his being thus
interrupted in his toilet. He asked me two or three questions, and on
learning that I had a passport, and was the bearer of a letter to the
English consul, he told me that I was at liberty to depart. So I bowed
to the governor of the town, as I had done to the governor of the fort,
and making my exit proceeded to my inn.
At Vigo I accomplished but little in the way of distribution, and after a
sojourn of a few days, I returned in the direction of Saint James.